


Epoch

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [329]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkwardness, Bad News, Christmas Back East, F/M, Finarfin coming into his own, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Indis is a badass, Manwe delivers the news he received in 'fraternal correspondence', he is...not good at it, the major character death is Feanor's and it already happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: “How I wish,” said Governor Manwe, raising his glass and setting it down again, “That our afternoon might be spent just so…in a spirit of camaraderie and not urgency. But ma’am, I confess my own heart has been heavy this week hence, with the burden of my errand. May I discharge that burden now?”
Relationships: Eärwen/Finarfin | Arafinwë, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Fingolfin | Nolofinwë, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Indis, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Nerdanel, Finwë/Indis (Tolkien), Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [329]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Epoch

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for being MIA, work has been a bear lately! (like the one that almost ate Finrod)

The bells rang seven o’clock. New York was a city of churches. Whether the Dutch and English and German Protestants were bitter over the chimes of midnight masses as well as the tolling clocks, one could not say. All men were the same in murmuring dawn. When the bells called, one could not help but to stir, and once stirring, to remember what cares Christmas day shared with every other day.

Thus, Finarfin woke, and remembered, just as Earwen sighed.

“Are you rising already, love?”

“No.” He drew her close.

The bells receded and the wind buffeted the shutters of their bedchamber windows. Their fire had burned to coals in its small hearth, yet under the counterpanes remained a haven of comfort, for now. Finarfin, who had spent a good part of his life loving ease, could not covet it at present.

“This will not be a happy Christmas, my love,” he said softly.

“How could it be otherwise?” Earwen asked, laying her warm hand on his warm heart. “Two of our children are beyond our reach or knowledge. And dear Fingolfin and Anaire gone as well…not to mention poor Nerdanel’s troubles. I hope, husband, that I have given you no reason to think me hoping, as a child would, that we can make merry in such a sober time.”

“No,” he said again. “No, dear one. I know all that. It is only that I fear…as you know I have feared since the news came…that the Governor shall tell us something dreadful.” He did not speak further; he had found himself unequal to the task. _Dreadful_ was like a forbidding door in a blank wall. What lay beyond it, he dared not imagine. Finrod…Artanis…Fingolfin.

Their names were enough to still his heart, then to make its beating painful again.

“There you _may_ call me selfish.” Earwen ducked her head a little so that she could kiss his shoulder. “For I do not think the Governor would take interest in the…the small affairs of Finrod and Artanis. Thus, I admit I have blinded myself with the firm belief that only Feanor is the subject of this news. Am I not a wretch for thinking so? Ah, I myself would allow it said—but only in the same breath as I am called a mother. _That_ is my every defense.”

“You are no wretch.” Finarfin kissed her, not on the forehead, though her brow was nearest him, but on the mouth, tilting her chin up with his hand. His Earwen had a little silver beginning to mingle with the gold in her hair, but she was no less beautiful to him—and indeed, almost wholly unchanged, in the morning light, from what she had ever been.

Her eyes had always been cheerful as well as wise. The only variance since their days at the fishing banks was in subtle depths of sadness. Age had not made the change so much as had the departure of their two children.

Not, of course, that Finarfin could forget the other ruptures in the family, today.

But if he was bound to be melancholy, if remembering was to harm him, he must hold close too the knowledge that _at least_ , he and Earwen had two sons left to them. Angrod was studying in the Capital, and Aegnor was often at his father’s side in the matter of settling Finwe’s affairs and overseeing duties that had increased in Fingolfin’s absence.

Finarfin’s gentle, easy life had been made so by his mother, his elder brother, his father-in-law…and now his yellow-haired son with an inclination for mathematics. 

Would the friendly God that blessed him at each turn do the same for those children that had traveled far and friendless?

_Not dreadful, oh Lord. Let this news not be—let it be bearable for your weak-willed, weak-souled servant._

Aegnor had already breakfasted when Finarfin descended the stairs. He was leaving the dining room and had a sheaf of papers beneath his arm. The light from the wide hall windows fell on his golden hair, turning it sunshine itself.

“Happy Christmas, son.”

“Happy Christmas, Father. The delayed textiles have arrived to port this morning—I received notice an hour ago.” Aegnor’s brow furrowed. Such expressions made him resemble his Uncle Fingolfin. Aegnor _was_ the most serious of Finarfin’s children, and it seemed likelier by the day that he would be the first to gain Fingolfin’s wrinkles of worry.

“Ah, yes,” Finarfin answered. “Very good.” Though he was caught off-guard, he could not chide himself for indolence with respect to the business at the port.

True, he had sometimes depended a little too much on Fingolfin’s steady bookkeeping in years past. He now considered all his responsibilities with equal seriousness. Olwe, wronged in other particulars, could rest easy as to the situation of his New York properties, entrusted these twenty-odd years to Finarfin’s care. The greater portion of Olwe’s New York concerns was comprised of mercantile goods shipped from Europe and beyond. It was only on a morning like this one—a morning preceded by others similarly clouded by anticipation, since receipt of the Governor’s letter—that Finarfin would forget them.

“I know it is Christmas,” Aegnor was saying now, “And I shall have supper with you, but I wonder…would you send my regrets to Grandmother at dinner? This is pressing. The men at the docks do not know how to examine silk and jacquard for blemishes, and if we do not review the crates _there_ , it will be nearly impossible to do so later.”

Under any other circumstances, Finarfin might have been inclined to protest. A grandmother’s invitation—a _widowed_ grandmother’s invitation—should not be postponed, no matter the call of worldly affairs. But the world would be at Indis’ dinner. Finarfin almost believed it would end there.

“Very well,” he said. “So long as you join her on Sunday. She misses you, you know.” Aegnor was the only grandchild she still had close enough to visit her.

Aegnor flushed. “And I, her,” he said. “I am very sorry, Father. Truly I am.”

“Do not trouble yourself. If the ship came sailing in on Christmas day after all, then you must, as you said, see to it. I am grateful as ever for your diligence.” He must not allow himself to look _too_ much for his brother’s face, in his son’s.

“You are glad he shall not be with us,” Earwen said, over their morning repast. She must have heard the conversation while she was coming down the stairs.

Finarfin swallowed a mouthful of biscuit. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I am glad that there shall be no innocent ears to hear what Manwe has to tell us. Aegnor is still so young.”

Earwen dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief, catching a tear or two. It was so unlike her to weep that Finarfin did not, for a moment, know what to say.

Then she smiled, almost as if to dare him. “I shall be with you,” she said. “To feast or fret, or even to…to mourn, if we must.”

His mother’s parlor was trimmed quietly for the holiday. A tree much smaller than those his father had been wont to bargain for stood before the fireplace, white candles unlit on its boughs. Finarfin paused to observe the tatted lace snowflakes that hung between the candles. He admired them with a touch of the same reverence he had felt since childhood.

“Finarfin?”

His mother in the doorway—his mother looking old and brave and kind, in her widow’s black and lilac. She was in her second mourning, now. Still, it was likely that Governor Manwe and his new wife would be the first guests Indis had entertained, outside her family, since Finwe’s death.

The concession had been all her own; it had been she who decided that the governor himself would wait a few more days, that the news he brought might be delivered on Indis’ terms.

 _On Nerdanel’s terms_ , Finarfin thought, toying with the same bitter hope Earwen had spoken of this morning. If the news only concerned Feanor—

He almost laughed at himself, then. _If Feanor has come to any harm, I will grieve._ This he knew simply and utterly. He smiled at his mother, and went to her with arms outstretched. Earwen had gone on ahead of him, while he stood beside the tree. He could hear her voice mingling with Nerdanel’s, now, in the room beyond this one.

It was the second Christmas they had spent nearly thus, of course, with so few in their company. Yet even the grief of last year had not been equal to this doom-tinged cloud of waiting.

His mother released him from her embrace only to slip her arm through his. They took a turn about the dining room together. “We have just Cook and Hannah with us today,” she said. “Cook, because I did not trust myself with a roast goose these days—and Hannah to serve at table.”

“Quite right,” said Finarfin. “You ought not trouble yourself with that sort of thing, when…” He broke off there, because he was almost certainly within his sister-in-law’s hearing.

“Oh, you need not look at me as if I am liable to break,” said Nerdanel, with a smile that managed to be both dimpled and careworn. Finarfin had known his brother, of course, as much as it was possible to know Feanor on his guard, and he had also known a little of Feanor and Nerdanel’s children—particularly her two oldest sons. The fruit of all this knowledge was in the seeing of ghosts. He saw Maedhros in her face and hair because it was impossible to avoid the resemblance. He saw Maglor in her talent, and he supposed the rest of them were hiding in the folds of her spirit as children do in their mother’s skirts.

Only—Nerdanel’s children would never grow old.

 _Not before my eyes_. Again, he prayed that the news did not concern them.

The governor and his wife were announced at half-past twelve. Manwe Sulimo, respected as a great visionary and a careful diplomat in one man, had never been renowned as a charmer. Nor was this held against him, according to the staid ideals propagated (if not practiced) by the upper echelons of polite society. It had been a surprise to those echelons, however, when he married Elbereth Gilthoniel, a woman twenty years his junior, as starry-eyed and satin-haired and sweet-voiced as could be found in New York—or anywhere.

Manwe arrived dressed in his usual plain grey cloth, which Finarfin knew to be the best of its kind. Elbereth was flounced and beribboned in china blue, and she had a white fur muff and pelisse that Earwen might have teased Finarfin for, had the occasion not been so serious. Manwe was polite and smooth and grave; Elbereth was all charm pleasant laughter.

Their manners could not matter, though, more than their news.

“Lord,” said Earwen under her breath, as they went into dinner. “How easy it must be.”

“What is that?” Finarfin matched her tone.

“To forget.” She shook her head. “They are prepared to enjoy your mother’s dinner, Finarfin, even though poor Nerdanel’s heart is bleeding. And—” her voice faltered a little. “Even though I am afraid, now, too.”

Finarfin patted her hand. He could think of no other answer. He found he badly wanted some of Finrod’s wisdom, or his father’s hope. His father, to Finarfin’s mind, had not been very wise—but Finrod was. Finrod and Fingolfin, the son and brother on whom he had built the model of his life, as boy and man.

“Governor, you are gracious to spend this day with us,” said Indis. She took Finwe’s chair; Finarfin sat at the foot of the table. An unconventional arrangement, perhaps, but it felt natural to him. He was not the head of this house.

Elbereth, at his right, met his eyes with a frank and friendly gaze.

“Finarfin,” she said. “My husband has spoken of your oversight of some of the city’s most valued merchants. I should be interested to hear of your knowledge of exotic goods—and of seafaring.”

“I have never been to sea, ma’am,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“Ah! Nevertheless, I have much to learn about all of you. The people of New York, I mean. I tease my husband to take me traveling, but not _seriously_ , you know. He has many affairs of state to contend with, and we have only been married a year.”

A year! Finarfin had not been much concerned with the Governor’s affairs even when Finwe was on City Council. Until this last week, he had neither known nor cared when and how Manwe came to be married. He bowed a little, head and shoulders, to acknowledge Elbereth. Mercifully, the conversation was interrupted by Indis, before another word could pass between them.

“Finarfin, will you pray the blessing?”

Manwe was at her right, Earwen beside him. Nerdanel sat at Indis’ left, and Finarfin watched her from beneath his eyelids as he prayed. The words did not stay with him. Once again, he sought Finrod’s face in his mind, Finrod’s voice in his ears. He imagined his eldest’s merry assurance that the prayer mattered not.

 _There are hypocrites here, Father_.

Was Manwe a hypocrite? Or was he something else?

“That was beautiful,” Elbereth said placidly, when Finarfin had finished and Hannah began to bring forth the hot plates. Finarfin thanked her. His heart was racing as the hour of revelation drew near.

At council with Feanor, nearly two years ago, Finwe’s sons and _their_ sons had met together, planning how the business of governing family and future should be divided among them while Feanor and Fingolfin journeyed west. Feanor had been so sure of Melkor Bauglir’s wrongdoing then; so dismissive of Manwe Sulimo’s ability to offer aid. Fingolfin had, after years of caution, agreed with him.

Finarfin alone had been unconvinced by his brother’s web of conspiracy and distrust. It had seemed too outrageous. Too much like a mad theory concocted by those who perceived threats overhanging every lintel; specters lurking in every shadow.

“How I wish,” said Governor Manwe, raising his glass and setting it down again, “That our afternoon might be spent just so…in a spirit of camaraderie and not urgency. But ma’am, I confess my own heart has been heavy this week hence, with the burden of my errand. May I discharge that burden now?”

Indis rose. She was not a tall woman, but she looked tall to Finarfin, then—though he was her slightest, smallest son, and had outgrown her last of his brothers.

“Finarfin and Nerdanel and I will join you in my husband’s study,” she said quietly. “If Earwen will entertain your wife, I do not think we need trouble her with this.”

“Oh!” Manwe exclaimed, so friendly as to almost seem nervous, “She has heard it all already. Elbereth is my confidante, you understand. But as you wish—as you wish. Only, may it please you to lead the way. It has been so long since I called…” His voice trailed away. He meant, of course, that he had not called since Finwe’s death.

Fingolfin would have been angry, at this. Finarfin still felt himself unequal to wrath. He thought of his father quite separately from his father’ s death; he would not allow the former to be sullied by the latter. As such, his heart was filled most often with fond remembrance. Thus joy was tinged with grief, but not suffused with bitterness.

He met Earwen’s eyes and drew strength from her gaze, just before she escorted Elbereth to the parlor. The rest might have stayed in the dining room, but Indis did not capitulate.

“The study,” she said. “Come with me.”

Nerdanel did not lean upon Finarfin’s arm. She did not, in fact, draw close enough to any of them to signal apprehension. Her head was high and her radiant hair was pinned and coiled at the nape of her neck. Her face had always been more beautiful in expression than in feature, but Finarfin could not help but see, again and again in these final moments, the relentless shade of her first, most excellent creation. That is, he saw her eldest son.

 _Let it be bearable_ , Finarfin prayed again.

There were chairs enough in his father’s study for them all. The books were the same; the stained glass and broad desk were the same. But an aura of unuse pervaded the place. When Finarfin brought his work with him—the rents from Olwe’s properties, perhaps, or the shipping list from an approaching Spanish galleon—he sat in his mother’s workroom, or in the sitting room, or the sunny south parlor. He did not usurp his father’s place, though it was his for the taking.

Yet now, in the study, Indis did what she had not done at table. She offered Manwe Finwe’s old chair, behind his desk, and gestured for Nerdanel and Finarfin to take those opposite it.

“Mother,” Finarfin protested, but she said,

“I will stand.” She chose to place herself behind Nerdanel’s chair, in fact, resting her hands on her daughter-in-law’s shoulders. “Governor,” said Indis. “You may begin.”

Manwe looked ill at ease at his borrowed post. He had always been a curiosity of a man—tall, but a bit stoop-shouldered; sharp rather than delicate of feature. In truth, he resembled nothing more than a seabird swept ashore by unexpected winds.

“My brother Melkor,” he said, “As you doubtless know, is overseeing the construction of the western terminus of the continental railroad. His understanding of infrastructure is vast; his extensive experience in the making of steel has been invaluable to our government engineers. I do not doubt his ability, you see.”

No one spoke a word.

Manwe went on. “Yet, he has flaws. I own it readily. He had much to prove, when he took the post a year ago, and much ground for proving. Construction was floundering on the eastern side of a very formidable mountain range. His prowess has done it all. The railroad cuts about and through that mountain range, and he has been, for some time, attempting to complete the entirety in California.”

Finarfin glanced again at his mother, and saw the same level coolness of expression that had guarded her through all his memory. If she was angry, or afraid, she would not show it.

“Pardon me for saying so, ma’am,” said Manwe, clearing his throat and directing his remark at Nerdanel, by means of a hawk-sharp glance, “But your husband was an obstacle to my brother’s work. Much as he did at…Ulmo’s Bridge, he burned and rioted at every encampment of workers within his reach. Men, I understand, were killed. More than a score, though not all at Feanor’s hand.”

 _Maedhros_. The name tolled like a bell, though it went unspoken.

Manwe cleared his throat. He waved his hand. “The…unpleasantness between my brother and Feanor must have continued apace. Melkor has assured me that he bore Feanor no ill will, but I shall speak plainly. Thousands upon thousands of government dollars have been sent up in smoke by your husband’s efforts to be…contrary. Your husband was, to those who did not love him, a menace.”

Thus repeated, it was impossible to ignore. _Your husband was._

Finarfin’s heart constricted in his breast. He dared not look full at Nerdanel, but he looked at her hand. It was laid flat and stiff against the arm of the chair. Her fingers—no—her whole arm, her body—were trembling.

Manwe went on as if he observed no change. “Melkor writes, most recently, to tell me that a good deal of the regiment we dispatched for security purposes and the…suppression of any local outcry…ah, I misspeak. It has been customary for our friends in Washington, with a little urging, to send a military presence to western parts. They did so here, but the soldiers were shaken and disbanded. My brother is not a perfect man, of course, but when he entreats me to—”

“Governor,” said Nerdanel, “Is my husband dead?”

Manwe jolted—or fluttered. His large, dark eyes went wide. “Oh, oh,” he said. “Goodness me, I have not gone about this right. I am afraid—yes, madame. He is dead. These…these many months, in fact. He was killed on the sixteenth of May, when he set fire to a guardhouse on official property.”

Nerdanel did not shriek or faint. Finarfin felt he was liable to do either or both for her, listening to the long, shuddering sigh that escaped her body like a departing ghost.

“Killed?” she said. “Was he—was he put to death, then. Was he given a trial—or—”

“It happened at the scene, I fear.” Manwe patted Finwe’s desk as he might pat a hand, or a child’s head. “Forgive me thrice over for being indelicate, but he _was_ a wanted criminal, and a trial…”

“Is that all your news?” asked Indis—sharply, for her. “Have you come only to tell us that our son, our husband, our brother is dead?”

Manwe raked a hand through his faded hair. “No,” he said. “There is a little more…the reason I came, in truth. I received a second letter.”

Finarfin gaped, at last. Perhaps pain overcame him, but he did not recognize his own voice much when he asked, “A _second_ letter?”

“I have often found it to be the best practice,” Manwe answered ponderously, over Nerdanel’s scraping breathing, “To await a second communication. It confirms and elucidates the details of the first. In this case, for example, I learned something that troubled me. It seems that my friend and your brother, Finarfin—your _other_ brother—has become entangled in the whole affair.”

“Fingolfin?” demanded Finarfin and Indis, in one breath.

“Yes…yes, here it is,” Manwe said, and from his pocket he drew forth the letter. He also retrieved a pair of spectacles, which he set atop his beak-like nose. He read in silence, before he removed the spectacles and put aside the letter. “Let me begin a little earlier. Feanor’s sons continue to wreak havoc in his absence. They have led sallies and disruptions of their own. Fingolfin arrived with his children and other companions, but rather than entreating his nephews to desist, it seems he has… _joined_ them.”

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” cried Nerdanel, her voice full and loud and _motherly_.

 _That_ , said Earwen in Finarfin’s memory, _is my every defense_.

“You mistake me, ma’am,” Manwe interjected. Where confusion and diffidence had characterized his prior speech, _here_ was the governor—severe and almost impatient. Finarfin discovered, quite suddenly, that he loathed the man.

If Manwe’s brother _had_ killed Father, as Feanor and Fingolfin both believed he had, then there were two men in the world for Finarfin to despise. The feeling was new, shocking, unwelcome.

 _Think of Nerdanel_ , prodded Earwen’s spirit and wisdom. Thus he humbled himself, focusing his thoughts on his sister-in-law. _Think of her, and protect her, if you can._

“I mistake you?” Nerdanel asked, now.

“Your sons have not done you credit,” he said. “Particularly the eldest. Since Feanor’s death, Maedhros has been chief among the instigators of these seditious riots. My brother even had to take the young man into his custody, for a brief time.”

“What?” Nerdanel was on her feet. “What did you say?”

“A brief time, only!” Manwe leaned back in his chair, as if to dodge a blow. Finarfin’s hands were seized around the arms of his own. It was difficult to imagine Maedhros captured, but it was also difficult to imagine him a killer—which he was. “He escaped. But even such an escape, from lawful custody, can bring no comfort. That is what I came to tell you today; that I am alarmed at the lawlessness this gentle family has—” He stopped, and coughed against his closed fist. “Nerdanel—if I may address you thus—I knew your eldest son. A very charming lad he was…very promising. Very handsome. Elbereth would not have thought of me, I am sure, if she had—but never mind. His charm was his undoing, I fear. Power such as that, power guided only by a _young_ mind, can be very dangerous. And I fear that in concert with your late husband’s fierce temperament—”

Nerdanel rose. “I know your brother,” she said. “And I know that, if he has laid a finger on my son, there is no corner of this country in which he can hide forever, from me. I may be a weak woman in my own right, sir. I may have failed to keep my children from violence, or my husband from violent ends. But do not speak to me in one breath of Maedhros and Feanor, and their sins, while in another praising your brother for all he is worth. Do not speak to me of my family, at all—or ever again.”

Manwe opened his mouth as if to answer—to scold or to entreat, Finarfin knew not. But Indis spoke, then, moving from behind Nerdanel’s abandoned chair to stand beside her daughter-in-law.

“What would you have us do, sir?”

The words were those of a question: her tone made it a challenge.

Finarfin was ten years old again, impressed at Indis’s courage in facing what could hurt them, when she had refused to submit to a robber in an alley near their home. He had seized Finarfin’s scrawny arm and Indis, who _had_ been searching through her purse to turn out its contents, had bolted forward and wrested her son from the unfriendly grasp. She had shouted at the astonished vagabond, and kicked him in the shins with schoolgirl boldness, and then she had run—they had both run—down the streets, so swiftly that Finarfin felt he was flying on the breath of a tempestuous wind.

Of course Father had been very dismayed when he heard of it, and had stormed a good deal, vowing to never let any of them set foot out of the house again. Mother, her docile self once more, assured him that robbers and the like were rarely a trouble in their neighborhood.

 _It only begs one_ , Father had declared darkly. _For a tragedy._

And of course, he had been right in the end. He had been killed by a disgruntled Irishman—unless Feanor’s account was to be believed. Feanor had said it was the doing of the governor’s brother, and Feanor was dead now, too.

Had Feanor, in his madness, spoken truth?

Finarfin’s mind continued to clear painfully. He had suspected much, in the past months, but this final certainty would have made a dash of ice-cold water seem gentle. The Governor accused _Fingolfin_ , the best heart to ever beat, the best man to ever walk, of sedition—and did so in the same supercilious breath that he acclaimed Melkor Bauglir, a man of undeniably reproachable character. Until now, Finarfin had not thought Melkor a murderer. But was he to hear Fingolfin named a criminal without question? Was he to hear of justice carried out by gun and blade? Of course Nerdanel was shocked and affronted by the news—of course Indis rose to defend the honor of her children, near and far.

“Do?” echoed Manwe. “Why, I have done it all already…I have orchestrated the dispatch of more troops. Double the number, in fact. Desperate times. I only felt it my duty to inform you of the worrisome conduct of your kin, which so troubled my mind. I entreat you to write a letter—I shall send it to my brother, and—”

Finarfin stood then, too. He put his hand in his mother’s, as he had so long ago. Her other hand was already in Nerdanel’s. They stood, so joined, before the ill portents of a pathetic, breathy little despot.

Or perhaps, only a despot’s defender.

“We will think on this, Governor,” Finarfin said. “My mother is the head of this household, my sister of her own, and I am honored to manage my father’s estate, as well as my brother Fingolfin’s, in his absence. This touches on all of us. We will need to hold council—private council—before we can dispatch any message of the kind.”

They left the study together. Nerdanel took Finarfin’s arm, this time. She was shaking like a leaf, her lips forming soundless words. When they reach the parlor, where Elbereth and Earwen were speaking politely to one another, Earwen looked up quickly.

“Ah,” she said. “They have returned. Shall I call for coffee—”

“I am afraid we must depart, my love,” said Manwe uneasily, to his wife. “If someone would be so good as to send that serving girl for our things—I would be much obliged. Come, Elbereth. We have imposed on the family for too long.”

“Finarfin,” said Nerdanel, only an instant after the door had shut behind the Governor and his wife, “Finarfin, I must speak to you.”

“Let us sit down,” he said. Across the room, his mother embraced Earwen. They drew apart, save for their linked hands, and spoke in low voices. Nonetheless, Nerdanel’s eyes followed them warily.

“Not here,” she said, still trembling. “Not here, I—I must speak to you privately.”

“Then, to my mother’s workroom,” he suggested. He had always found it to be a peaceful place; the windows there were south-facing, and were accordingly favored with sunshine even in winter.

Once there, Nerdanel did not join him on the small divan that Fingolfin and he had sprawled upon as children. Or—maybe it was only Finarfin who had sprawled. She paced to the windows and stood looking out. Her hands were clasped behind her back.

“I was warned,” she said. “Feanor used to say his mother had foresight but I…I had all that I needed to set me right.” She wheeled on him, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. “Do you remember the year that Feanor went away?”

He did, shamefully, though he was surprised to hear her speak of it now. It was more than a decade ago; Feanor had been in a quarrel with Finwe, and his absence from Formenos had not been known in New York for some months. When at last it was, Fingolfin and Finarfin had discussed the wisdom of interference in their half-brother’s affairs.

Finarfin had advised against it.

 _He will be very angry_ , he had said, _If, when he returns, he learns that we have pried_.

Despite this, Fingolfin had ridden north—to inquire, unsuccessfully, as to the family’s health and Feanor’s whereabouts.

“Yes,” Finarfin answered. “I remember.”

“Melkor Bauglir came to our house,” Nerdanel said. “I thought he was a thief in the night, at first. Then—then I recognized him, and I was all the more afraid.” She was obliged to stop there, to catch herself in a sob. “Maedhros,” she gasped out, when she could. “He—he seized Maedhros and I threatened him with a gun. He left us and went away, I know not where. I never saw him again, and thought…I thought we were safe. Feanor had made him an enemy, you see, long ago. He came looking for Feanor that night, but found only a farmhouse full of children, who had nothing to offer his grudge.” She laughed bitterly. “So I said to myself. But oh, underneath it all I _knew_ that that was nothing more than a wall I’d made in my own mind. All that starving year I—I could not bear to remember the first deep fear I’d felt since Feanor rode off. But Maedhros remembered it. I know he did, though we never spoke of it.”

He had not expected this. “Did he—”

“That man was evil,” she said. “He had blood on his hands. Feanor knew it, and I knew it, long before Finwe lay dead outside this house. To think that he has had my baby in his hold for even a day—an hour—” She moved, with sudden urgency, towards the divan, extending her hand. “I must go. I have delayed too long, but I am stronger now. I could bear the journey, Finarfin, if you would but help me with the arrangements. I cannot leave them alone any longer. I _cannot_ —”

He was there to catch her as she fell, sobbing wildly. He did not scold, nor did he promise what he could not give. When she was calmer, he did not let her go. Holding her close, he said only,

“Fingolfin is with them.”

That meant everything.

“I cannot go,” Nerdanel whispered, against his shoulder. “Can I?”

His heart broke, then—or it finished breaking. _Fingolfin is with them_ , he repeated inwardly. _Fingolfin is with them._

“It would be a long journey,” he told her. “And I do not know that your health _would_ be equal to it. Most importantly, the Governor was correct as to their status. They are wanted men, Nerdanel. If Fingolfin has found and joined with them, he is at risk of prosecution likewise, and cannot offer real protection.”

“That does not bar a mother’s love—a mother’s care.”

“I know it does not. But would you rather offer them true aid, or the mere _hope_ of comfort, presuming—without knowledge—that you could be safely with them in a year or so?”

She was silent.

“I did not lie,” Finarfin said. “When I told Manwe we would hold council, among ourselves. Nerdanel, there _is_ a path before us, and I am ready to tread it, however weak and idle I have been before. We know the truth now, of Melkor and Manwe, and of what lengths they will go for their gain.”

“I want to save them,” she murmured. “I want to save my boys.”

“Then let us do our best together,” said Indis, from the doorway. They both startled at her voice, but were also relieved to hear it. At least, Finarfin was, and he trusted that Nerdanel felt as he did, in this if not in all else. “Let us begin our work.”


End file.
